


The Dawn of Hope

by Kaiidth



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen, Growing Up, Young Aragorn, implied future Aragorn/Arwen, loads of Silmarillion references because Silm is awesome
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-30
Updated: 2015-04-30
Packaged: 2018-03-26 11:47:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,583
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3849805
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kaiidth/pseuds/Kaiidth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <cite>"Call him Estel," she says. Call him Hope.</cite>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Dawn of Hope

It is the year 2931 of the Third Age and Elrond feels the world changing. He feels it in the water, in the ground, hears it in the wind—the whispers of hope being born. His heart leaps, as for a moment he sees the fractions of future that could come to pass, bright and blissful, without the darkness lurking in the shadows. But the vision is brief and soon the heavy feeling of reality falls upon him.

There is no darkness in Rivendell, nor does he see it when he looks beyond the borders of the Valley, but the Arda has many hidden corners, and the light seems dimmed these days, as if a grey veil was resting atop the Middle-earth. It reminds him too much of the Watchful Peace, and for never could he forget the bloodshed that followed, his mind grows unsettled.

Hope is something new and fresh, something much needed.

He spends too long looking beyond sight then—looking into past, into future, searching for the bright spark with his mind, wishing to see more of it—for when he comes to himself, eventually, his first thought is to share his findings with Celebrían, his lady, his heart. Only to remember she is long gone, walking the Undying Lands with their kin, for Middle-earth was too cruel for her gentle soul.

And it is long since Elrond felt it so, but he finds the longing for her presence is still within him, buried deep, never lessening. But he has his children and his people and the Sea calls not to him yet, so he stays. Middle-earth is his home still.

Foresight is a burden of the Eldar, he realized long ago, not a gift, but moments like this, when the bright light fills his mind, free his shoulders of the weight, somewhat. 

He tells Elladan and Elrohir of the vision, of the light, and their smiles are wide, eyes full of life and sparkling, as they hear of future possibilities and the longing for his wife eases in Elrond's heart. For his children he would stay until the end of time. He only regrets that he can't tell Arwen—for her smile he misses—but there is nothing to be done about it.

Arwen left for Lothlórien years ago, and is to remain there longer, for it is her mother's home, her mother's people. Lothlórien is an enchanting place and Lady Galadriel welcomed her granddaughter warmly, with open arms and gentle smile and Elrond faults Arwen not for staying long. There was time, when he himself walked under the golden mellyrn, Celebrían by him, and his heart was joyful as never before.

Time passes quickly for him, anyway, years going by in a blink of an eye, and he knows, soon his daughter will return.

It is one day though, in the year 2933, when time becomes an aspect in his life, without him even noticing it at first. It comes with hope.

It is autumn, the weather unpleasant, when the water tells him somebody is crossing the Ford of Bruinen. A lonely women. He sends out three of his people, to help her find her way to the Valley for she is of Dúnedain, he knows, and the folk of the lost king are always welcomed in his house. It is his brother after all, Elros—who chose a mortal life when Elrond chose immortality, ages ago—whom Dúnedain descend from, through many generations.

He meets the women as she first lays her eyes at the Last Homely House. Her clothes bear the marks of a long journey, dirty and ragged—though of good making—and she looks aged to his eyes, her face showing hard life and suffering. Looks are deceiving with men-kind, thought, and indeed, she is young of age, not even thirty yet. In her hands, wrapped in blankets and furs, she carries a child. A child that is to shape the future.

The Mother's name is Gilraen. And the child is Aragorn, son of Arathorn, heir of Isildur.

The Dúnedain are few and Arathorn died, slayed by orcs, Elrond learns, the shadow is reaching to the north as well. The Mother is wise and knows her child would not live long in the Wilds, as lots of enemies would like to see the rightful king's blood spilled, and she asks Elrond to take her son, to shelter him in the Hidden Valley of Rivendell. She does not plead, nor does she beg, her chin is up as she offers her only child to one of the eldest of Eldar still dwelling in Middle-earth, for she is proud, even when brought to knees by life, royal blood in her veins.

Somewhere in the back of his mind Elrond can't help but admire—again—the strength of men, when they seem so fragile at the first sight. 

He bows his head, as the Mother's eyes watch him. "It would be my honour," he says. "May your heart be at ease, for he will be safe here and shall be treated well."

She closes her eyes in gratefulness upon hearing so, and falls to the nearest seat, as if her strength left her all of sudden, only her task to deliver the child to safety keeping the exhaustion away. No matter how strong the will of men is, they are bound closely with their flesh and hardship of body is not overcome easily, like it is for Eldar.

"Only one thing I ask of you," Elrond speaks. "The name Aragorn is too dangerous; even in Rivendell one must be careful, for where light shines, shadows are bound to be as well. If you do not wish him to have hard times in youth, choose a new one for him, which carries not the legacy of his people."

The Mother looks up at him and while her body is weary, her eyes are sharp. And at her next words he knows, she is gifted the foresight of Dúnedain.

"Call him Estel," she says. Call him Hope.

~

Gilraen stays in Imladris, but her spirit fades, grief lying heavily upon her, and as time goes, Estel learns he should come to Elrond with his needs and requests, rather than to his mother. She loves her child, of course, dearly, but gradually leaves the care to the elves and she grows withdrawn, distant, spending more time with books and ghosts of the past, than with people.

Estel is too young to understand, and it saddens Elrond to see the child thinking his mother refuses him for the lack of love from her side. Elrond holds pity in his heart for the broken women, but nothing can he do with Estel's belief.

Meanwhile, the love in his own heart for the boy grows great, quickly, and he cannot but became aware of the passing of the time, that troubled him not for many centuries. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he begins to keep track of the days passing, seasons and years, dreading the moment sure to come, that the boy, who became like his own son to him, will perish. But he supresses such thoughts and focuses on the present, when the mood in his house is bright.

The boy is well loved among the elves of Imladris, too, even when he thinks not so. Elladan and Elrohir are of the first to grow fond of their adoptive brother. They spend hours showing him every hidden corner under Elrond's roof, taking him off to woods and Elrond sees his children’s smile and laugher mirroring on Estel's face. Lindir teaches him songs of their folk, Ainíriel about the plants and art of healing, Glorfindel the art of arms, when he is grown enough to wield a sword. When in the Hall of Fire, someone always joins him, talking of events that brought them to the Valley, of history of their families, well-known and ordinary as well, and so Estel begins to learn the history of the three ages.

The boy is clever, mind bright, interested in all Elrond's people have to offer him. With keen grey eyes he watches and sees much, nature calm, observant, and in short time he understands Elrond's kind like little mortals do. He speaks Westron and Sindarin, as his mother spoke both to him since his birth, and when runes are no longer alien to him, he takes great pleasure in literature, in reading with own eyes of the events that shaped the world. 

He reads the tales of men, of dwarves, thought his interest lies with the fair folk, Elrond knows. He is not surprised therefore when Estel comes to him one day, asking for what Elrond was long anticipating.

"I wish to learn Quenya, Gwadar," the boy says. He is nine then. And wants to learn the language of the High Elves, the language more than a half of Elrond's people don't speak, for it is unused and too complicated.

"Are you sure, Estel?" Elrond regards the boy with profound eyes. "It is not easy to learn and you still have many years to do so. I could have the books and scripts translated for you, if you wish to read them that much. Or Lindir could tell you the stories; he knows most of them."

"Most, not all," the boy mutters under his breath, and Elrond cannot quite supress the quirk of his lips. "And I don't want to trouble him more," he adds hastily.

"It would take long for you to master the language," Elrond remarks.

"It doesn't matter." Estel shrugs it off, impatiently, like a child. Like a man. Which he is, both, Elrond reminds himself. Then, he looks up at his foster-father with sudden uncertainty. "Gwadar, do you not wish me learning the language?"

"No, child," Elrond says gently, already used to the child's outbursts of self-doubt. "It is not that. I was merely finding out, if you knew of what you are asking. I will personally teach you Quenya if you wish so."

A wide smile spreads on the boy's face that warms Elrond's heart. "Thank you, Gwadar," he says delighted and runs off carefree, to walk the woods will Elrohir and Elladan again.

And so Elrond finds himself spending two more hours a day in his study, teaching a child of men the language of his youth—the language spoken ages ago, when the shape of the world was different. Estel is a good learner, and fast too, faster than Elrond anticipated. He should not underestimate the boy, he thinks, and something tells him to remember it for the future.

Years pass too quickly for Elrond's liking and Estel is soon almost as fluent in Quenya as Elladan and Elrohir are and he is no longer a child, rather a young man.

He knows many stories by the year he turns twenty of age, stories from all ages, of elves, men and dwarves alike.

He had read about the birth of Eldar, about their journey to Valinor, meeting with Valar, about the Oath of Fëanor and his sons, the kingslaying at the Alqualondë that followed, about the War of the Jewels, battle of the Unnumbered Tears, and many others, and he questions Elrond about them greatly, for curious he is of the smallest details. Most fond is he of the story of Beren Erchamion and Lúthien Tinúviel, a mortal man and the most beautiful of the elf-maidens, and it brings an amused, yet fond, smile on Elrond's lips. 

Narn I Hîn Húrin reads he, too, and whether he sees himself in Túrin, or is it because of another reason, he holds the story close to his heart, as well.

He manages to surprise Elrond, then, after reading it, because wisdom lies in asking the right questions, not knowing the answers, and Estel does ask the right question. A question Elrond not only does not know the answer to, but a question he had not asked himself before. True to be told, it was long since he thought of the tragic story, and even then, his focus laid elsewhere, but still, he though never of what Estel asked. 

"Was Cúthalion of the firstborns that awoke near the bay of Cuiviénen, Gwadar?" 

Elrond hides his surprise well and answers calmly, that he does not know. In the night he lays awake for hours, pondering Beleg Cúthalion, pondering Estel.

Estel knows many stories, he sees the important things, those hidden and subtle, too, and he asks the right questions, so Elrond decides it is time for him to know his own story, as well.

To know his name is Aragorn, he is son of Arathorn, of Dúnedain, the heir to the throne of Isildur. To know he is their hope. Their Estel.

~

It is the first day of March of the year 1951, when Elrond calls upon Aragorn with his true name and reveals his ancestry to him.

He leads him to the room where the broken blade of Isildur is kept and offers him a ring made into a shape of two serpents with emeralds for eyes, their heads meeting beneath a crown of golden flowers.

"Here is the ring of Barahir," he says, "the token of our kinship from afar; and here also are the shards of Narsil. With these you may yet do great deeds, for I foretell that the span of your life shall be greater than the measure of Men, unless evil befalls you or you fail at the test. But the test will be hard and long. The Sceptre of Annúminas I withhold, for you have yet to earn it." (1)

Elrond sees Aragorn's amazement as he looks upon the sword that cut the one ring from Sauron's hand, and on Barahir's ring, in downright awe. 

The ring was first worn on the finger of Finrod Felagund, given to Beren's father Barahir, when he saved his life, as a token of eternal friendship and oath to aid in every need to Barahir and his kin. And it was that ring, which Beren showed to Finrod years later, asking for his help; that ring, Finrod—one of the greatest Elven Lords—did not forget and fulfilled his pledge, finding his death when protecting Beren, a single man.

Aragorn's face is one of disbelief and amazement, as he sets the ring on his own finger and realizes the stories which he grew to love were of his kin. That he may have a similar story of his own in the future. And he will, Elrond thinks.

They talk for some time more and eventually the young man walks off, seeking Elladan and Elrohir to tell them of the news, surely, his heart high within him and a spring to his step. For a second Elrond sees something. A path which future may follow, that was uncovered, now Aragorn learned the story of his house. It is bright, even though Elrond senses a bittersweet quality to it, but the vision is brief, only a fraction of second, and no matter how he tries, he catches not anything he can put into words.

At evening Elrond hears water whisper to him of his daughter and her companions nearing the Valley, and his heart leaps in joy, for oddly, he thought the last twenty years a long time. 

In the night he dreams of Lúthien and Beren, the man and elf, whose love defeated even the great evil of old.

~

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! :)
> 
> (1) quoted directly from The Return of the King, Apendix A, Tale of Aragorn and Arwen
> 
> gwadar \- made up sindarin word for step-father borrowed from http://idance.deviantart.com/art/Made-up-Elvish-words-109232152


End file.
